


All The Dead Kids

by of_thunder_in_my_ears



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: American Sign Language, Autistic Frisk, Chara and Frisk Share a Body, Houseplant Flowey, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Miscommunication, Non-Verbal Frisk, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Chara, Self-Hatred, body image issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 05:56:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10299134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/of_thunder_in_my_ears/pseuds/of_thunder_in_my_ears
Summary: Frisk digs the body’s toes into the plush green carpet and stares at its face in the mirror. You stare with them, keeping quiet. You can feel a veritable cocktail of negative emotion swirling in their soul just beyond the faint division that defines them from you, but you don’t dare reach out to touch it, not until they’re ready to talk to you.Or:Love is not a cure-all.





	

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this idea and ran with it and I actually kind of like what I've managed to do here so I guess I'm posting it. Hasn't really been beta'd for mistakes/sense/etc, so if you see something amiss please let me know! I have a vague outline for this one but we'll see where it ends up. In short, though: every one of these kids needs a metric fuckton of therapy. 
> 
> I swear I'm still working on chapter 2 of Let Your Heartstrings. I just overlooked a pretty big thing and have to basically reconstruct it entirely.
> 
> Title is from the song of the same name by AJJ. Chapter title is from "Dead Hearts" by Stars

Frisk digs the body’s toes into the plush green carpet and stares at its face in the mirror. You stare with them, keeping quiet. You can feel a veritable cocktail of negative emotion swirling in their soul just beyond the faint division that defines them from you, but you don’t dare reach out to touch it, not until they’re ready to talk to you.

They frown at the reflection. Tilt the head at different angles. Fuss with the hair and shirt. Their emotions spike suddenly, lashing out angrily across the space between you. Hate hits, gouging jagged claws into your soul and _tearing,_ like the rough handle of a knife you wish you could use and flame bursting from fingers that are yours and not yours, like a length of chain biting into your palms and broken teeth in your mouth. Shame and disgust flood into the wounds it leaves, like infection in the cuts on your wrists and human skin against your own, like Quiet Hands and words stuck in your throat. Helplessness twists around your soul all the while, like bitter petals between your teeth and dust crunching under your feet, like the drip of the faucet while you’re locked in the linen closet and rain pattering on the roof of the bus shelter.

Your anger flares, fighting through the snatches of memory and sensation that are half-yours and half-not, and you strike out blindly. It connects, the deluge of negative emotions pouring into you tapering in hurt surprise just enough for you to pull yourself into something tighter and harder, more compact and distinct from the nebulous shape the two of you take to communicate and control the body. You can’t disconnect from Frisk completely, but you’re solid enough now the storm they’ve created is muted, distant. You won’t get sucked in and start to drown again.

You feel the tempest ease a little more, and then an apology colored in love and regret caresses the edges of the defined shape you’ve made yourself into to weather their emotions. Slowly, you start to unfurl, and the gentle flashes of _love love sorry_ manifest into promise-laced blurry sensations of chocolate melting on your tongue and yarn wrapped around your fingers.

They didn’t mean to. You know they didn’t. They don’t have to ply you with chocolate and an hour or two of letting you knit to get you to forgive them. Still too solid to send them direct thoughts, but gradually uncurling, you send them _forgiveness reassurance love_ in pulses of a soft green-and-yellow sweater under your hands, clawed fingers combing through your hair, and strawberry ice cream cloyingly sweet in your mouth.

They reply with _love love love,_ no particular memories attached besides an overwhelming warmth that seeps into your soul, almost involuntarily making you splay out faster than you would have chosen so you can drink it all in. You are greedy, you'll admit.

It’s only once you're nebulous and wispy again that you realize there's a little more distance between you and them than normal. Frisk has retracted slightly, hardening the part of them between you and the body’s skin, but you can feel their negative emotions start to pick up again as they fix the body's eyes on its reflection.

 _What's wrong?_ you whisper, nudging them gently, inquisitively, in case your words bounce off them like stones off bridge flowers.

Frisk pulls the face into a grimace and draw Gs with both hands away from the nose, ending the motion with the X handshape beside the head.

You consider this for a moment, slightly taken aback. You hadn’t realized this meatsuit meant that much to them, honestly. They've always said it didn't. But if that's what they're upset about…

_The body isn't ugly, Frisk._

They grit the body's teeth and sign _yes_ furiously at the reflection. Their soul quivers and retracts further. They may not be able to hear you anymore.

 _No,_ you say, and their soul relaxes a little, though it still shakes and you can feel them about to lash out again. You repeat your denial and add: _It’s changing and growing, but it isn't ugly. It’s actually kind of pretty._

Their anger bubbles over, but you're ready this time, snapping into a solid beneath the body’s breastbone. Distantly, you can see yourself glowing through its skin and shirt, your red light illuminating the shape of its ribs and casting hard shadows onto the lines of its soft jaw.

 _Ugly,_ they sign sharply, tears starting to blur the body’s vision so much you have to rely more on the faint input you get from its hands and arms. _Ugly, ugly, ugly. Lumpy. Wrong. Bad face. Bad hands. Bad everything._

You can't talk back like this, and you can't shift until Frisk calms down, but they won't if you don't talk to them.

You hate paradoxes.

“God, can you two _knock it off_ with the lightshow?” Flowey groans from the window sill, rolling his head back dramatically. The book he’s been reading (you think it’s about marine life?) is open in front of him, resting between the lip of his pot and the windowpane. “I'm trying to _read.”_

Frisk’s soul stills, but you can feel the body rocking back and forth on its feet, toes fisting in the soft carpet, anxious and stressed. Tentatively, you begin to spread out again.

You can always count on the soulless piece of shit to shake things up.

 _Ignore him,_ you murmur to them, briefly pulling a part of yourself out of the way so an eddy of self-loathing can shudder past you. _The body's proportions are odd right now, yes. It’s just starting puberty. That's what puberty_ is _, Frisk. It is changing bodies and weird feelings about those changes. We’re just going to have to deal with looking_ _a little awkward until the body fills out. It isn’t a big deal. Though, for the record, I like its face._

You like the roundness where yours had been flat and sharp, starved even after you had been getting enough to eat for two years. You like the perpetually half-lidded eyes, and the red iris that's a deep burgundy, mistakable for brown in anything but the best light. You like the full mouth, and the way the cheeks dimple when Frisk makes it smile. You _did_ really like the convex curve your nose had made, but you suppose this body’s nearly-flat nose is kind of cute.

Frisk slams the right hand hard against the body’s sternum, sending a deep noise reverberating through its chest. Their soul is prickling and sharpening but not striking at you yet, and you resignedly prepare to brace for it again.

They thump the body's chest again, harder, and the sharp burrs of their agitated soul brush against you, insistent. You realize, abruptly, that they're signing _mine._

 _Your what?_ you ask, puzzled.

 _My body. Not T-H-E body. Mine._ Frisk glares at the body's— _their—_ reflection, but it’s clearly aimed at you. You shrink back from them, pulling yourself into a loose shape, but their pointed resentment-flavored frustration clings to you like bad thoughts that make your arms itch.

This was bound to happen. You knew it would, eventually. You're just a parasite, dug deep within your host. You're a shadow of a person, but they aren't. They're real and alive and they don't need you anymore. They don't _want_ you anymore. You pull tighter into yourself to spare them your hurt, sending them a brief pulse of _understanding sorry sorry_ with an image of their face in the mirror in New Home and the sharp, full sensations that come with being in complete control.

You finish closing yourself off, sinking deep to avoid the glow that will light Frisk up from the inside, then turn away from their senses. You can't leave for real, but this is the closest you can get. They deserve that much, at least. They've been hinting at this for almost a year now, getting self-conscious when attending to the body’s needs and vaguely annoyed when you move something or say something without asking them. You've already taken to waiting for their permission, and you're usually good about that, but...You suppose they're done putting up with a poltergeist.

Hate batters your edges, blunt in a way that shatters bone. You aren't sure who it’s directed at. You hope it’s you; they ask too much of themself far too often. You can't be expected to hold them to the promise they made to you on that final run, staring into the mirror in Asgore’s home, wrist curving in the shape of _Ours_. Looking back, the whole thing is unreasonable: the body was theirs for years before you latched onto them, and you can't expect them to just decide it isn't anymore, for your sake. They can’t expect that of themself, either.

You made your choice when you ate those buttercups. You don't belong here anymore.


End file.
